


Passing Time

by lucdarling



Category: Marvel (Movies), Thor (2011)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/pseuds/lucdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has half an hour to cool down. He can do a lot in that time, but only one idea is worth following through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing Time

Clint knows he's gone too far when Phil's voice raises from it's usual measured cadence. “Barton!” Clint stops and turns to face him, fingers still dug into the ceiling beam. It’s just the two of them in the hallway.

“You need something, Agent Coulson?” Clint smirks and drops to the ground. He feels the force of the jump radiate to his knees but he doesn’t let on. They’re Agent Coulson and Barton when they’re on S.H.I.E.L.D. time and/or property - they become Phil and Clint on their own time.

“Follow me.” The other man says simply and turns on his heel. Clint is careful to stay two steps behind him. He knows if he was at home he’d already be on his knees but they’re still at HQ so that’s not exactly feasible.

Clint follows his lover to a deceptively simple door and Phil ushers him in. He stands in the doorway as Clint takes in the slate grey walls, simple metal table and lone chair.

“You’re in here for half an hour, Barton. Cool your heels.” The lock turns, loud in the sudden silence. Clint can’t even hear the wing-tipped shoes walk away.

He takes stock of the room again, sitting in the chair. Clint has a table that’s bolted to the floor, smooth walls and anything on his person: sixty eight cents in change, a twenty dollar bill, two .300 Win Mag cartridges and a rubber band. Plus pocket lint. He stands from the chair, toppling it over and tests the door just for the hell of it.

Clint should definitely have more patience than this, he’s the best marksman in the nation. By its very nature his job requires discipline and hours of endless waiting, but all Clint can think about is the itching under his skin, the pure need to do something. It’s been like this for at least a day, raw nerves jangling for something Clint doesn’t have a name for. He smooths his palms over his thighs and a thought comes to him. Relaxation would probably help a lot in this case.

He looks around the room again with more focus, gaze zeroing in on what most detainees would consider an inauspicious crack high up where the crown molding meets the ceiling. Clint knows better though. He wonders if it has audio, as he abandons his chair for the table’s wider surface.

“You watching, Agent Coulson?” He smirks at the camera lens he can barely see. Clint’s half-hard already just from the thought alone, the mere idea that he’s actually going to follow through with what he’s threatened more than once. His tongue peeks from between his teeth, wetting his lips as he unbuckles his belt. “I hope you enjoy the free show.”

Clint drops his pants and boxers, letting them puddle to the ground in a heap of fabric. He takes his cock in his left hand, pumping steadily until he’s leaking and his palm is slick enough for this to work. Then Clint pauses momentarily, leaning back against the table; no, he’s lounging, sprawling for the camera. His cock is heavy, and hot, so hot against his hand.

Clint caresses himself slowly, brushing his thumb over the slit just the way he likes it. It’s just the right edge of pleasure and pain and Clint’s breath hisses from between his lips. His wrist bumps against his hipbone with each downward stroke.

“Don’t you wish you were here?” He calls out to the empty room with another insouciant smile. If there isn’t audio, Clint knows full well that the other man can read lips. He slides his hand down tortuously slow, callouses dragging over the sensitive skin, then back up. Over and over until Clint can feel the whine build in the back of his throat. He imagines it’s Phil’s hand instead of his, the agent’s slim fingers wrapped around his cock and squeezing with just enough pressure to delay the inevitable.

The movements speed up, his own hand stroking faster than before. Clint bites his lip but a groan escapes anyhow. It’s loud in the small room, echoing in his ears. The itch underneath his skin has shifted south, all feelings concentrated in the slide and twist of his wrist, the feel of pre-come slick against his shaft and the movement of his hand. Clint’s unable to stop a second gasp, and it’s breathier than it should be.

“God, I wish you were here.” Clint says, eyes staring directly at the camera lens. “You’d have your hands all over me,” His eyes are half-lidded at this point, words spilling from his tongue without realization or censure. “You’d make me beg, you’d start out slow and it’d be the best kind of torture.” Clint drags his thumb over the top of his cock with enough pressure to make him shout. “Phil. Phil,” He gasps again, feeling like his skin is too tight to contain him. “You know just how to keep me on the edge, just the perfect amount-” His voice breaks off in a quiet moan.

He’s close, so very close. His breath is coming in short pants now, his right hand has a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table. Clint’s hips thrust up, back arching as his brain whites out.

He comes back to himself long minutes later, heart pounding in double-time from the rush. The beat is just starting to slow against his ribcage when the door opens. Phil steps in, laptop under one arm. He takes in Clint’s state of undress and insolent sprawl over the table with a flat look.

Phil sets the computer on the table, mindless of Clint’s nakedness. The marksman watches, pulling up his pants as Phil proceeds to erase the footage of the room from the S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance database.

“If I had been here, you would still be begging me to let you come.” Phil states quietly. Clint’s mouth opens but no words come out. He tries not to swallow his tongue as the older man heads toward the door. “Now let’s go home and test that theory.”


End file.
